


Visions of Sugarplums and Shootings

by TheSilverQueen



Category: Hannibal Extended Universe - Fandom, Polar (2019), Tempo (2003)
Genre: #EatTheRare Fest, #RareMeat, Alternate Universe, Don't copy to another site, First Kiss, Hannibal Cre-Ate-ive, M/M, Magic, PolarTempo, References to The Nutcracker
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-06
Updated: 2020-01-06
Packaged: 2021-02-27 16:00:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,707
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22139719
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheSilverQueen/pseuds/TheSilverQueen
Summary: Jack steals a pirate nutcracker on a whim and nicknames it Blackbeard. He does not expect the nutcracker to then invade his dreams, start smoking, or object to being called Blackbeard because he says his name is Duncan.
Relationships: Jack Ganzer (Tempo)/Duncan Vizla | Black Kaiser
Comments: 5
Kudos: 49
Collections: EatTheRare 2019





	Visions of Sugarplums and Shootings

**Author's Note:**

> This is my (squeaking in at the last minute) entry to [Hannibal Cre-Ate-Ive's](https://twitter.com/hannibalcreativ?lang=en) [#EatTheRare Fest 2019](https://hannibalcreative.tumblr.com/post/189438178994/as-the-north-grows-dark-and-cold-many-people)! 
> 
> Warnings: Duncan murders some people. And cuts off Blut's head. What's new.
> 
> Inspired by: I wanted Duncan to climb down Jack's chimney and say "ho ho ho" like Clifford Unger does in Death Stranding. I have simple wishes.

Jack steals the nutcracker just because he can. He tells his friends it’s for practice, or for fun, or because no one stopped him, but really it’s just because he can. Plus it’s like no other nutcracker Jack has ever seen, since this one has a pirate’s eyepatch, a billowing black overcoat, and a cigarette clenched in one fist. Worst comes to worst, he figures he could make some money off of it, given that he got it for free. So Jack tucks it under his coat and walks smoothly out of the store, and when he gets home he sets it on his windowsill, admiring the fine detailing of the nutcracker’s beard and clothes. 

“What should I call you?” he asks the nutcracker. “All dolls should have a name. Or so my mother said. You’re not really a doll, but you’d probably sell better if I had a story. . .”

Jack makes dinner and eats it in the company of his nutcracker. It stands silently and solemnly on his windowsill, although a few times Jack nearly jumps out of his skin because he turns around and finds those soul-piercing eyes staring at him like the nutcracker is alive. He even finds himself running a hand over the nutcracker’s face, and being shocked that such a realistic looking beard feels smooth as the painted wood that it is.

Finally, as he washes the dishes, it hits him.

“Blackbeard,” Jack announces. “I’ll say you’re Blackbeard the Pirate. You certainly fit the part.”

Blackbeard the pirate nutcracker says nothing back. So Jack takes that as acceptance. He finishes tidying after dinner and then goes and changes for bed. He even moves the nutcracker, since the view from his bedroom is better than the one from his kitchen, especially when the sun sets and all the houses and flats around them turn their lights on one by one.

Jack sits on his bed and watches silently as one by one, the lights go on, and one by one, the lights go off. Then he climbs into bed.

“Good night, Blackbeard the pirate nutcracker,” Jack says. “Sweet dreams.”

* * *

Jack dreams of snow and woodpiles and cabins in the mountains. He wouldn’t have thought anything odd about that, but for the fact that after a few minutes of lazy wandering about the snow, he comes across a small brown house with a porch, smoke rising from the chimney and windows lit by golden lamps. There are two chairs on the porch, and sitting in one of them is Jack’s nutcracker.

As he watches, mouth agape, his nutcracker nonchalantly fishes out a cigarette and lights it.

“Well, that’s new,” says the nutcracker. 

“Blackbeard?” Jack asks.

The nutcracker makes a face. He exhales a billowing cloud of smoke, and says, “What a terrible name. I’m Duncan. Use that.”

“You’re . . . a toy.”

“No, I’m a man stuck inside of a toy.”

“How did that happen?”

“I killed a lot of people, and one particular person got mad at me,” Duncan says, entirely nonchalant in between puffs on his cigarette. “I was going to kill him too but he got the drop on me. That’s okay. I’ll get him back.”

Jack swallows. He’s abruptly aware that he’s wearing nothing but pajama bottoms, even though he can’t imagine how a toy nutcracker could hurt him. 

Duncan notices. “Stop shivering and calm down. I’ve got bigger problems than you.”

And just like that, Jack finds that his dream is no longer cold. He still feels the swirling snow as it lands on him, but it’s a more akin to a kiss of coldness, like icy rain striking skin, than a numbing cold that steals the warmth from his very breath. Slowly, he walks up the stairs and gingerly perches in the other chair, watching as Duncan looks briefly at him and then returns to smoking.

“How . . . How long have you been trapped?”

“Not too long. He wouldn’t leave a loose end like me for too long. He’ll find me again and put an end to it.”

“How are you going to stop him?”

Duncan sighs. “I’ll find a way. I’ve fought my way out of worse than this.”

Then he stands, abruptly unfolding like a cat on the prowl. He puts his cigarette stub on the porch railing and shrugs off his heavy black overcoat, revealing a simple black long-sleeved sweater and long black pants. He turns and, ignoring Jack’s flinch, holds out his hand, offering over the overcoat.

Jack shies away. “I’m good.”

“Will you still be good when your fingers fall off?” Duncan asks bluntly.

“This is a dream.”

“This is my dream. And I’m a man trapped in a doll in a dream meant to torment. You entered here, and if things can happen to me – which they have – they can happen to you. Now take the coat before I have to bury your dead body too.”

Jack takes the coat. It is thick and warm, and when Jack wraps it around himself, he can’t stop a little wriggle of happiness as the cold finally ceases to bite at his skin. It even smells nice, due to whatever cologne Duncan wears, and Duncan is so tall – or Jack so short – that it covers him almost from shoulder to foot.

“Thank you,” Jack says.

Duncan ignores him in favor of lighting up another cigarette.

“Those aren’t good for you,” Jack ventures after another long moment of silence.

Duncan snorts. “They won’t kill me.”

“How are you so sure?”

Duncan nods towards the forest. To Jack, it looks the same as any forest, but when Duncan raises his hand and points, Jack is able to make out the shadowy figures of people moving in the distance. They’re moving slowly and camouflaged, but the snow gives them away, and Jack’s pretty sure that the reason their outlines are so strange is because they are carrying weapons. Lots of weapons.

When he looks back at Duncan, he finds Duncan has resumed sitting and smoking, completely nonchalant again.

“So they’re the ones who want to kill you?”

“Yeah. They’re employees, same as I was. I’m just better than them.”

There’s no pride or arrogance in the words. It’s simply a statement to Duncan, the same way Jack might state that Duncan’s coat is warm or snow is cold. He has no fear of them, the same way an old wolf has no fear of the approaching winter the way a young wolf might, because he has weathered many and knows what to do. 

Of course, it also might be due to the fact that Jack can see guns holstered on Duncan, now that he’s taken his coat off.

“Are you going to kill them?”

Duncan stubs out his cigarette. “Yep.”

Then Duncan stands up, takes out a gun, and cocks it. When Jack looks back at the forest, he sees that the shadowy figures at much closer now, although they still have strange outlines. Now, of course, he is able to see the camouflage gear that contributes to their otherworldliness, as well as their weapons. 

“You should wake yourself up, Jack,” Duncan says. “This is about to get ugly.”

“How – ”

Duncan grabs the end of his overcoat and pulls, savage and swift, so that Jack is hurled to the ground like a ragdoll when an animal pulls out the rug beneath it. The shock is so sudden and the pain so real that for a moment Jack is unable to tell whether he is in the dream or awake, and it is only when he grips at the floor and feels hardwood and not snow or splinters that he realizes he is awake again.

He is awake and on the ground of his bedroom, tangled up in blankets, and when he casts about for the nutcracker he finds that Duncan no longer has a cigarette in his hand. 

Now he has a gun.

Jack’s house is still cold though, as cold as if someone had opened the door and let the draft in, and a horrible sinking feeling grips Jack’s stomach. He lunges for the nutcracker and dives back behind the bed just in time to hear the soft click of his door opening.

Jack grips the nutcracker close and prays.

“Where’s the goddamn doll?” comes an irritated voice from the doorway.

A flashlight comes on, the light falling upon the window where the nutcracker had stood. It roves up and down and then left and right, as if the wielder thinks the nutcracker has simply scooted deeper in the shadows. There are two thumps – two footsteps, Jack realizes – and the circle of light grows bigger as the person steps more fully into the bedroom.

“Never mind the doll, where’s the boy?” another voice demands, rough and low. “He was inside the house.”

The first voice is unconcerned. “Maybe he got up to take a leak, who cares?”

Jack swallows hard as the footsteps thump closer and closer. He’s still as defenseless as he was in the dream, still wearing nothing but pajama bottoms and having no idea what to do. He looks down at Duncan again, sees the gun in his hands and the steady glint in his eyes, and thinks, quite suddenly, of the nutcracker ballet – of little Clara, in her dressing gown, set upon by rats, and the nutcracker who came to life to defend her.

Jack’s nutcracker smells of cigarette smoke, swears like a sailor, and dresses like a pirate, but Jack has nothing to lose.

 _Here goes nothing,_ Jack thinks. He leans down and kisses Duncan.

For a long moment, nothing happens. Then the doll grows warm in Jack’s hands, at first gentle like the warmth of a hot drink on a cold day, but soon the warmth becomes blistering hot, too hot to hold, and Jack drops it to the floor with a stifled curse.

Of course, even a stifled curse is noise, and Jack looks up in horror as the flashlight swivels.

“Got him,” one of the voices announce.

And so it is that just as a guy with a gun and camo gear comes around the edge of the bed, a huge gun in one hand and a flashlight in the other, that the curse upon Duncan is broken, and the nutcracker swells to a full size, gun wielding, cigarette-smoking, black overcoat clad man who wastes not a single moment before tackling the other guy. 

Several bullets and a few minutes later, Jack stares, mouth agape, as Duncan lights up again, face splattered with blood but not a single wound on him.

“Thanks for that,” Duncan says. “I’ll take the trash out with me.”

He actually starts to lug one of the bodies out when Jack remembers that he is a living breathing person and not a doll like Duncan was, and Jack leaps to his feet. “That’s all you’re going to say to me?” Jack demands.

“I’ve got places to be and people to kill,” Duncan grunts. “What more do you want?”

“An explanation?”

Duncan kicks the last body into the hallway. He either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care about the blood smears on the ground, though he at least wipes his sleeve against his face to get the blood off of there. He turns around to face Jack. “Sure. If you explain why you kissed me first.”

Jack blushes. “Just a silly thought.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“The nutcracker ballet,” Jack answers. “Clara kissed the nutcracker to restore him to being a real person.”

Duncan tilts his head. “And here I thought it was because you liked my coat.”

“Your coat’s nice too.”

Duncan laughs. “Tell you what,” he says, “let me go kill these bastards, and then I’ll come back, and we can have a real talk. Deal?”

“Are we going to seal it with a kiss?” Jack asks, mostly to be annoying.

As it turns around, Duncan is a great kisser.

* * *

When Jack first hears the scrapes and grunts from his chimney, he thinks he’s gone insane. He even ignores it, because although Duncan has given him a few guns and even more safety lectures, Jack’s first instinct is still to run even though Duncan’s instinct is to fight. However, it becomes harder to ignore when the police bang on his door.

“Uh, can I help you?” Jack asks, squinting into the darkness.

“We got a report of a suspicious figure in the neighborhood,” the officer says. “See anyone strange?”

“Nope. Trust me – my security system would’ve gone off.”

The officer tips their hat. “Sorry for disturbing you, then. Have a nice night.”

Jack closes the door, turns the many locks Duncan installed because he’s a paranoid weirdo, and then sighs. “I know you’re there, Duncan.”

“Ho ho ho,” Duncan says, brushing off dust and debris from his coat into the grate. He has a disturbingly large sack next to them, although Jack suspects the red might not be the original color of the sack. “Merry Christmas.”

“What on earth possessed you to come down the chimney?” Jack chides.

He still kisses Duncan, though, because he’d been quite afraid Duncan might not return. Duncan had been unflappable, but Duncan always is, so that honestly isn’t saying much. Duncan returns the kiss, smelling of iron and gunpowder and smoke, but Jack sees no wounds, so he’s happy about that.

“Fastest way in,” Duncan says. “And I have a gift for you.”

Duncan rummages through the sack and produces, firstly, a severed head. Which is kind of gross, but after three years, Jack is sort of used to it. It’s part and parcel of being the husband of a for-hire killer, although Duncan is pretty picky about assignments and only usually accepts the jobs he wants to, which Jack is all for. Plus he always takes out the trash without being reminded.

Jack at first is going to ignore the head, but he sees the distinctive purplish mark on the side of the head’s face.

“Is that – ”

Duncan nods. “Finally got him.”

Jack breathes a sigh of relief, feeling long-carried tension in his shoulders finally melt away. Mr. Blut had sent lots of people after them, with Duncan easily killing or avoiding them, but he’d been leery of leaving Jack alone to go after him directly. Jack had been split on the subject – he’d wanted Blut dead, but he’d also been worried that Duncan might never return, so he’d been happy to have Duncan stay close and teach him to shoot and cook terrible food for him. 

“A picture would’ve done just as well,” Jack says, but he kisses Duncan all the same.

Duncn shrugs. “I was going to come back here anyways. Figured I might as well bring the proof. And I ran out of SIM cards.”

Jack ignores that particular barb; they’ve been arguing for years over his rapid consummation of SIM cards. About the only reason they stopped arguing is because Duncan pays for them, and Jack is more than happy to live off of Duncan’s pension. Besides, he knows to take away all of Duncan’s quirks would be to have a lesser man, and Jack loves him as he is.

Jack nudges the sack with his foot. “Any other presents for me?”

“As a matter of fact, yes,” Duncan says, wrapping the severed head back into its bag and setting it aside. He digs into the sack once more and comes up with a white box, a bit battered from its journey and a bit sooty from Duncan’s hands, but it’s tied with an elegant golden bow.

Jack tears into it, and when he pops the box top off, he can’t help his laugh.

It’s a nutcracker. A pirate one, complete with an eyepatch just like Duncan’s, and black attire like Duncan’s. It even has a tiny parrot.

“Reminded me of us,” Duncan says fondly. “You’re the parrot, by the way.”

“I’ll call him Blackbeard,” Jack says, grinning.

“I still think that name is awful.”

Jack cuts him off with a kiss, beyond grateful that Duncan chose to come back to him, that Duncan always chooses to return to him, and that once upon a time, years ago, he stole a pirate nutcracker on a whim.

FINIS

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: And Duncan and Jack live happily ever after, the end.
> 
> Find me @ Telegram as TheSilverQueen : [Pillowfort as TheSilverQueen](https://www.pillowfort.social/thesilverqueen) : [Tumblr as thesilverqueenlady](http://thesilverqueenlady.tumblr.com) : [Twitter as silverqueenlady](https://twitter.com/silverqueenlady) : [NewTumbl as thesilverqueen](https://thesilverqueen.newtumbl.com/) : [Dreamwidth as thesilverqueenlady](https://thesilverqueenlady.dreamwidth.org/)


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